Chaos (3 page)

I could almost feel the flashback as it hurtled to the surface. The fallout, like always, was impossible to predict. I could black out. I could scream, alerting Standish’s people to my presence. I could even rip away my climbing protection in a fit of temporary insanity.

The plateau grew larger, dominating my field of vision. It was so close. Just a few more feet.

Suddenly, violent colors erupted in my eyes. I felt a stinging, debilitating pain in my forehead.

Not now. Please not now.

My brain seemed to separate from my body. I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t do anything. Vaguely, I felt my arms reach out, stretching across the plateau. Then, my boots kicked to the side, landing on top of the rock.

I stood in lower Manhattan, hands on hips, soaking in the moment. The previous day, I’d made the find of the century. A find that would revolutionize the way historians viewed early Manhattan.

A find that would make my career.

Of course, I wouldn’t take all the credit for myself. There was plenty to go around. But deep down, I knew the truth. Without me, none of it would’ve been possible. I was the one who found it. Me. No one else.

A loud shout caught my attention. Turning my head, I saw someone running toward me.

“Cyclone! Come quick! There’s been an accident.”

I frowned. “An accident?”

My headache vanished. The colorful sparks in my eyes died. My head cleared. My emotions dissipated.

I breathed heavily, giving myself time to return to normal. I hated the episodes with every ounce of my being. But that was the price I paid for my sins. It struck me that the experience, although shorter than usual, had been unexpectedly intense. I wondered what it meant. Maybe nothing.

Maybe everything.

Lifting my head, I examined myself for wounds. Seeing none, I propped myself up on my elbows. I ran a hand through my tousled hair and looked around. I lay on a patch of thin soil, covered with grass. Glancing to the side, I noticed that I’d rolled twenty yards away from the cliff.

At least I didn’t roll the other way.

Noises and voices reached my ears. Twisting around, I saw a small camp about a hundred yards away and at a lower elevation. Large trenches zigzagged across a cleared-out field. More than twenty people, wearing hardhats and carrying hand tools, milled about the trenches performing archaeological work.

At least, that’s what they thought they were doing.

Quickly, I stood up and took cover behind a large rock. After removing my climbing gear, I stowed it out of sight. Then, I checked my own tools.

Satchel? Check.

Machete? Check.

M1911A1 pistol? Check.

Reaching to my shoulder holster, I unsnapped the leather strap securing my gun. I wasn’t eager to use it. But with what I intended to do, I was certain to attract unwanted attention. And if someone attacked me, well, all bets were off.

I performed reconnaissance for a few minutes. I didn’t see Ryan Standish’s massive frame anywhere. Nor did I recognize any of the workers. That wasn’t terribly surprising though. Standish preferred to use local help for his dirty work. It made it so much easier to screw them over after he found what he wanted.

The workers appeared diligent but unskilled. The former archaeologist in me grimaced every time one of them picked up something from the ground. They were like kids in an antique store.

An antique store filled with irreplaceable artifacts.

Crouching low, I darted down a short slope. As quietly as possible, I penetrated a small tree grove and skirted my way around the edge of a cloud forest until I reached the rear of the dig site.

A dome-like structure, ten feet tall and thirty feet in diameter, stood before me. It was supported by heavy-duty PVC piping and covered with hefty green canvas. Four smaller domes sprouted out of the ground on either side of the main one.

I grabbed my machete from its sheath. Sneaking forward, I cut a small hole into the large dome’s canvas and peered inside.

Hundreds of artifacts were scattered about the interior, spread out across dozens of tables. Tags dangled from most of the objects. However, they were noticeably missing from the largest and most impressive finds.

After confirming the dome was empty, I snuck inside. Looking around, I saw potsherds, carved greenstone rocks, flint arrowheads, and broken staffs. My eyes swept to the opposite end of the dome, passing by stacks of empty cardboard boxes and giant piles of various packing materials.

A two-foot tall artifact stood alone on a small table. Its golden edges gleamed in the few rays of light that managed to poke their way into the dome. I strode over to the table and picked up the relic.

My heart pounded as I studied the cacique, or pendant, cast from gold. It was heavy, yet felt light in my hands. It appeared to depict an important man, perhaps a chief. He stood with his hands on his hips and a fierce look across his face. Regardless of his place in the Tairona society, he was clearly a great warrior.

I turned it over, marveling at the craftsmanship. Every inch of the cacique featured rich detailing and underlying meaning. The scope of the work took my breath away. The Tairona people were, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the most spectacular gold workers of pre-Columbian America.

“Hello, Cyclone. Good to see you again.”

I whirled around, still clutching the cacique. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood in the middle of the tent. He was clearly athletic, with rippled muscles showing through his tight t-shirt. His hair, wiry and black, was long and tied into a ponytail. His facial features, including a pair of sharp, grey eyes, were strong and distinct.

My muscles tensed. “It’s Cy. And I wish I could say the same thing about you, Ryan. But frankly, I don’t like you. Never have, never will.”

Standish walked forward, taking long strides and swinging his powerful arms. At the same time, three brawny men stepped out from the shadows and formed a loose semicircle around me.

“You have excellent taste.” He nodded at the cacique. “That’s the prize of the dig. It should fetch at least a quarter of a million at auction.”

“It doesn’t belong to you.”

“I found it, I keep it.”

“You didn’t find it. You didn’t find any of this stuff. You paid off some local officials to let you hijack a pre-existing dig.”

He shrugged. “It’s business.”

“It’s theft.”

“You should talk. You’re not an archaeologist, not anymore. You’re just a treasure hunter.”

“And you’re an asshole.”

He held out his hand. “Although I’d love to keep this up, I have work to do. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like my cacique back.”

I stepped backward toward the canvas. My free hand brushed against something hard and slightly sharp on another table. It felt like an arrowhead and I quickly palmed it. “I found it, I keep it.”

“You’re on an isolated plateau in the middle of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta. You’re surrounded by my employees. You have nowhere to go and no one to save you.”

“You’re right.”

He looked at me suspiciously. “Then you’re going to give it back?”

I held out the cacique. “I want free passage off this mountain.”

“Of course.”

I wanted to punch him and his magnanimous smile. He had no intention of letting me live.

Then again, I had no intention of giving him the cacique.

I tossed the artifact over Standish’s head. His eyes widened and he dove to the ground to catch it. The other three men, distracted by the action, looked toward him.

Spinning around, I grabbed my machete. Sweeping the flint arrowhead across its back, I sent a shower of sparks flying into a nearby pile of foam peanuts. Small flames formed and grew in size, quickly igniting the canvas tent. Before I knew it, a wall of fire rose high into the air.

I shifted my attention back to Standish. He lay on the ground, holding the cacique, his attention diverted from the ensuing disaster.

“¡
Rápido
!,” he shouted. “
Obtener los
–”

I stepped forward and kicked him in the jaw, cutting him off. Then I reached down, grabbed the cacique from his outstretched hands, and darted into the blaze.

Tremendous heat engulfed me. It singed my shirt and burnt my jeans. It leapt at my throat, stealing my oxygen. It was hell, pure and simple.

And then a split-second later, I was free.

I sprinted toward the cliff, passing a series of stunned, frozen workers. Behind me, I heard shouts and orders.

At the bottom of the hill, I glanced over my shoulder. Every single worker, male and female alike, raced after me. It was a strange, disconcerting sight, like being chased by an army of angry lemmings.

I sprinted uphill and grabbed my climbing equipment. As I slipped into the harness and secured my weapons, I snuck another look behind me. The workers were right on my tail. I didn’t have much time.

I didn’t have any time.

I stuffed the cacique into my satchel and ran forward to where my climbing rope was still anchored to the boulders below. With a savage cry, I leapt off the cliff. As my feet left the ground, a single thought raced through my mind.

What the hell am I doing?

I soared through the air and twisted my body, taking one last look at the workers. They returned my grin with shocked expressions. I shot them a quick salute and then, like a cartoon character, dropped like a rock.

Wind rushed into my face and ruffled my hair. I fell, praying to God that my multi-directional anchors would hold. They had to.

So, why am I still falling?

Abruptly, the rope jerked and my body jolted. I swung to the side, bashing my back against the hard schist. Looking up, I saw that the jutting cliff blocked me from view.

I was safe.

I was alive.

At least for the moment.

Chapter 3

Although exhausted and jittery, I still stopped to check my appearance in the cracked, dusty mirror. My face, covered with dried grime, looked worn and tired. My body sagged and my neck and shoulders sported numerous abrasions.

I tried to wipe away the dirt but merely succeeded in spreading it across my face. Next, I fiddled with my hair, turning it from a mess into an even bigger mess. I breathed rapidly through my nose, highly annoyed at myself.

Calm down, Cy. She’s just another girl.

But she wasn’t just another girl.

She was Beverly Ginger.

Giving up on my appearance, I walked over to the dilapidated, unmarked door. Lifting my fist, I rapped on the surface.

“The door’s open.”

Her voice, spicy yet melodic, sent shivers down my spine.

Get a grip on yourself, you idiot.

Twisting the knob, I opened the door. “I got it. I…”

My tongue tied as my eyes fell upon the woman sitting at the small table. With a classic hourglass figure and long, cascading chestnut brown hair that seemed to dance as she moved, Beverly Ginger was a strikingly gorgeous woman. Her tanned facial features were those of a classic beauty and radiated a youthful glow. Her eyes, a deep violet, seemed to peer right into my soul.

She wore a tight blue t-shirt that curved in all the right places. Her khaki pants hugged her hips and tapered downward, accentuating her long, shapely legs. A pair of slender boots completed her eye-popping look.

She was a goddess, an unobtainable, unreachable goddess. It wasn’t her face or her body that gave me butterflies. Nor was it her clothes. It was something else, something intangible. She possessed that rare, indefinable quality that turned men’s heads and caused women to shrink into their shoes.

She was, for lack of a better way to put it, Beverly Ginger.

Beverly looked up at me, batting those long eyelashes. Her smile vanished, replaced by a concerned look. “Are you okay?”

“Nothing that a cold shower and a hot meal can’t fix.”

She grinned. “Then you came to the wrong place.”

I glanced around the room, surprised to see no bathroom or kitchen. In fact, there wasn’t even a bed. There was nothing, except for the table and two chairs. “Do you live here?”

“No. But I wanted to meet someplace private.”

I walked over to the table, opened my satchel, and removed the cacique. “As promised.”

She took it into her hands, coddling it gently, like a baby. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen such workmanship.”

“Neither have I.”

“Any problems?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

She placed the cacique on the table and stared at my bruised face with concern. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you into this.”

“I recovered an artifact for your museum and got to kick Standish in the face. Honestly, I couldn’t ask for a better day.”

“I’d love to hear all about it. That is, unless you’re busy.”

“As long as you don’t mind hanging out with a human dirt pile, I’m all yours. What did you have in mind?”

“First things first. I owe you money. Five million Colombian pesos right?”

“When you put it that way, it sounds like a huge score.”

She smiled. “It converts to about three thousand of your American dollars. Not exactly earth-shattering money.”

“I’m not really an American,” I replied. “These days, I’m more of a nomad. How’d you raise all that cash anyways?”

“I rustled it up from the locals. They’re just as mad as I am about Standish stealing my dig site.”

“That’s awfully generous of them. I bet they can’t wait for you to open your museum.”

She stood up and crossed the room. In the corner, she picked up a small shoulder bag. “They’re excited all right. When we open next July –”

“Next July? I thought you were opening this year.”

Returning to the table, she rifled through the bag. “Did I say July? I meant December.”

My nerves began to tingle. “Wasn’t it November?”

“I’m sorry, Cy. I really am.”

She pulled a metal object from her bag. Startled, I reared up, knocking my chair over.